The Dynamic Daisy
by Reeses-Pet
Summary: Set in modern day Manhattan, the Dynamic Daisy is the retelling of the Great Gatsby through the eyes of the female protagonists. This work focuses on comparing the portrayal of women in regards to newly socially acceptable relationships and the changing depiction of New York City in media from the 1920s to the 2000s.
1. Chapter 1

The Great Gatsby, characters, and original concept belong to F. Scott Fitzgerald.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

Not everyone is born with a golden name. My mother always told me that I was a blessed child; I would have more opportunities than she ever had. When I was a girl, she told me that the more I worked for myself, the less I would have to labor for anyone else. I wouldn't have to be just a pretty face like she was. I could be more than a trophy if I played my cards right.

Jay Gatsby was a wonderful man but beneath me, an encumbrance on everything that I had inherited and would achieve. Years later, when he would amass an even greater estate than my family's own, he would come to represent everything that we of East Egg scorned. He flashed gaudy decor and a lack of aristocratic etiquette. He was beautiful.

My Jay Gatsby was indeed a beautiful man, but, for all his riches, would never be enough.

* * *

><p>It was a day of questionable weather when my second cousin Nick called. It had been a few years since I had hung out with my family from the west, so I was more than happy to arrange a dinner. Tom would be happy: he was particularly content in the company of fellow elitists- Yale graduates. I arranged our meeting for Le Cirque, a classy place of fine dining that had provided me with many business luncheons and satisfied clients. As I made my plans, I figured that Nick could use a female companion as well. Jordan, an ambitious friend of mine who made up for her cynicism with her quick wits, agreed with a brief "k." in text.<p>

My cousin Nick was from the part of the west that I had left behind in order to pursue greater things. While I could sit on our family fortunes as it dwindled into the increasing pool of inheritors, I instead carried my mother's advice in my heart and found my livelihood in the sleepless city. Quiet and honest, Nick was a wallflower.

Over artichoke risotto and lobster bisque, Tom's phone rang, and he answered it with the utmost urgency. Business, any good wife would assume, as I did. When the attendants whisked away the barely touched appetizers and daintily placed the pan seared salmon in front of an empty seat, I left the table to search for my husband, giving the sincerest apologies to my cousin and Jordan. They could keep each other company. Meanwhile, I found Tom outside the occupied men's room, phone cradled against his cheek.

I was standing behind him, waiting for the right moment to inform him that the entrees had arrived. Then I watched him say to the phone, "Don't worry about him, you've got me. I've gotta go, Daisy's waiting. I know, I know. I'll see you for dinner on Saturday."

Saturday? He was going to be away on a business trip this weekend, a bimonthly occurrence. The words were spoken like a secret, but when he hung up and turned to glance back the table, he found me. For a brief moment, a strange expression passed over his face, but it disappeared in an instant.

"Who was that?" I asked, trying to keep a clear mind. Did I mishear what I perceived to be affection in his voice? My stomach began to knot.

Tom stared at me like I was crazy. "Neal from work," he said after a moment. "Let's get back to dinner."

"Okay," I said at last, and we resumed dinner without referencing the phone call.

* * *

><p>That call was the first of many. Our house phone started receiving several from a hidden number, but whenever I picked up, the caller would hang up. These calls clearly began to agitate Tom, but when I suggested looking into blocking the number, he waved the idea away.<p>

I met her a few weeks after our dinner at Le Cirque. During dinner, the phone rang, and as had become custom, Tom and I ignored it. A few seconds after it stopped ringing, the bell rang.

"I'll get it," Tom said immediately, but I stood up.

"I'm closer to the door."

I opened the door to a woman with auburn curls, a dress with a plunging neckline, and an iPhone in one hand. She seemed shocked to see me, but her surprise quickly turned into one of disgust. Immediately I felt like my clothing choices were being scrutinized, which wasn't really fair considering that I hadn't even changed out of my work clothes.

"Yes? How may I help you?" I asked slowly, unsure of who this woman was.

Without an invitation, she stepped in, and completely ignored the question. "TOM!" She screeched, "I know you're here!"

"Excuse me-" I began, but she whirled towards me, eyes ablaze.

"Shut up!" She said, and as she spoke, Tom appeared at the door to the dining hall, looking as if all hell was about to be raised.

Not one to be pushed around in my own house, I considered calling the cops. "I don't know who you are, but please leave, or I'll-"

"You're letting her threaten me, Tom? Is this the woman that you're so committed to staying married to? I don't even see how she's worth it." The woman stalked up to Tom, somehow looking frightening despite their significant height difference. "You can't keep pushing me to the sidelines!" The final word sounded closer to a shriek.

"Tom," I looked at him, and he met my gaze. "Who is she?"

Whirling around towards me, the woman looked ready to kill. "Who am I? I'm the one he loves! You're what's keeping us apart. He doesn't even like it when I say your name."

Suddenly Tom moved. He crossed his arms. "Myrtle, go. It's dinnertime."

A wave of nausea passed over me. "Tom?"

"It's too late, Tom! I can say her name if I want to, because sooner or later, you'll have to choose. I would gladly leave George for you! Do you even understand what kind of life I'm living now? He's been outsourced and we're going to end up homeless! You have to pick now. Me, or Daisy? Me, or Daisy? ME OR DAI-"

In one swift movement, Tom's fist slammed into the woman's face with a loud crack.

* * *

><p>After Myrtle left, crying but still professing her love, I packed our untouched dinner into the fridge. I hadn't eaten since my lunch break seven hours ago, but I was in no mood. As Tom placed the last of the plates in the sink, I sat down at the mahogany table we had bought together five years ago, right after our marriage. Tom joined me a moment later, an unreadable expression on his face. It disturbed me that he didn't seem to look guilty, just somewhat uncomfortable.<p>

"Myrtle Wilson is my mistress." The words were spoken so casually, it was inappropriate.

I didn't know what to say, but shamefully, I started to cry. "No," I spit out, but couldn't compose myself well enough to produce a coherent sentence.

"Daisy, you'll always be my wife," He said, as if I was supposed to settle for that. The lack of apology or promise to stop seeing her spoke more loudly than anything he had said all night.

A surge of anger passed through me. Why would I have to make this choice? I thought about my dearly departed mother and how she would have scorned me for even considering staying. I couldn't just stand by while my husband spent his time in some other woman's bed. I deserved better. As I stared at Tom from across the table, I struggled to imagine a life without him. Could I bear to go to bed every night alone, knowing that in my absence, someone else would be in my place?

I was silent until I heard Pammy begin to cry in the next room. Then, before I could hesitate, I said, "I want a divorce."

* * *

><p>Nick referred me to a Dr. Samuel Wheatley, an esteemed divorce lawyer with an established office on Lenox Avenue and a law degree from Harvard. The attorney was a sharp man with a Wall Street haircut that contrasted with his neon orange tie. Over the next month, I would share more dinners with this man than with my soon-to-be-ex-husband. It became clear that I would be getting a good cut of Tom's earnings and properties, especially from child support. My daughter would be making money before she even learned how to talk. That fact comforted me through the few lonely nights spent sleeping in the guest room, before I could move out.<p>

I knew that if I remained under the same roof as him, I would hesitate. I had to break free of the Buchanan name. While Tom was away on Saturday, I buried my anxiety over who he was with and instead set to packing, consolidating the past five years of my life into a few moving vehicles. The closets were emptied, and the shelves looked deserted as photos of my side of the family vanished into a bubble wrap padded box. My grandfather's porcelain teacups and glass figurines disappeared from behind the glass. There would be no traces of me to be found.

As I carefully wrapped my jewelry, I found the small box. It was a deep navy and velvet with a silver trim, and I recognized it immediately. Slowly, I opened it to reveal the rose gold Rolex that Tom had gifted to me on our fifth anniversary. It gleamed, bright and clean, and I immediately felt guilty for how little I had worn the watch. Now, it was meaningless. I closed the box and left it on our- his- bed. I focused on the next items to be put away, blinking away tears.

Jordan appeared at my doorstep not twenty minutes later, sweaty but with a Chai latte in each hand. "I swindled some desperate accountant into buying our drinks," she told me with a smug look of satisfaction, handing me my beverage and seating herself on the lavender Ottoman at the foot of the bed.

"Thanks." I took a sip, thinking about how Tom sometimes brought me Starbucks on the days he came home before me, and quickly redirected my attention to Jordan. "For everything. If I don't leave this place now, I don't know if I ever would."

Shrugging, she turned and began reorienting her earrings in the mirror. "I'll double my wardrobe. Think of payment as me having free reign over borrowing your stuff until you move out." She smiled. "As long as you respect my space when I've got guests over, we'll get along wonderfully as housemates. Hell, maybe I'll even babysit every once in a blue moon."

I smiled weakly at the statement. "Pammy's so used to Tara. It would be good for her to become accustomed to other people."

Jordan cut to it. "And how are you holding up, Daisy?"

At first it was tough to talk about, because sitting there in our bedroom, it was as if Tom could hear every word that I said. I reassured myself that he was at work, spouting small talk at the conference table, and the truth came out more easily.

"She has a husband too," I muttered, feeling no less comforted by the fact that someone else was in my position. "Some software developer that lost his job, so now she's desperate to get out."

Jordan sighed. "Well, what about the settlement?"

I told her about child support and percentages first, which actually was very reassuring. Then the conversation fell away to lighter topics. Jordan rejoiced over the return of a fellow bachelorette at the bar, and explained that the dating scene hadn't changed that much over the past few years. Good men were as rare as ever. To prove her point, she brought up the long-forgotten characters of our younger years.

"Matthew Dabers, a man-child with more hair gel than hygiene- you would've gone home with him if I hadn't told you that he was in the news a few years back for indecent exposure. Then there was Duncan Bough, who tried to win both of us over at the same time with cliché pickup lines he probably read off Buzzfeed." Jordan quipped, counting off on her fingers, "And don't get me started on that Leonard Salzman."

It was almost as if we were in college again, back when I was single and free of marital attachments. Tom had been worth leaving that life behind, but now he was why I was returning to it. There was the sound of a car over gravel, and I knew that Nick had arrived. Faintly, I wondered if our family tie would be worth more to him than his university-old friendship with Tom. Setting aside the small jewelry box, I hurried to the front door and flung it open, embracing my cousin.

"Nick," I greeted him, kissing him on the cheek, and as usual, he politely gave me a peck in return. This time, however, he did the same to Jordan, who smiled at me. At least something substantial came of that dinner, I thought. That would be a conversation for later.

It took less than an hour to consolidate my life into four storage vehicles. As Nick helped load my suitcases into his trunk, I stared at the pristine white front of the Buchanan house- my house, once upon a time. The Japanese maple that I had spent so much time picking out would not be coming with me. I could say my goodbyes to the house in three hours, when I would return to pick up Pammy. Fortunately, Tom was respectful of my wishes to give me space.

I rode with Jordan. She lightly continued the conversation about before, emphasizing her cynical nature regarding the men of the world, but then turned the conversation to my cousin. Nick was worthy of dating her, because unlike most men, Nick regarded carelessness with scorn- in her words. He was honest, which was more than she could say about herself, although her bluntness had to count for something, right? While my love life fell to shambles, I found some comfort in seeing Jordan's turning into something that lasted more than a night. My mind began to drift.

"Hey." We had stopped a red light. Jordan touched my arm gently. "You're better off without Tom. Right now, we're about to begin the longest sleepover ever."

I smiled, wondering how I had allowed my married life to take such precedence over my former social circle. "Thanks."


	2. Chapter 2

The Great Gatsby, characters, and original concept belong to F. Scott Fitzgerald.

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><p><span><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

Later that night, I curled up in a bed that felt foreign to my skin. Jordan was out buying a last minute birthday gift for some great aunt Martha, and I had the house to myself. I'd spent many nights here, but they were either in Jordan's bed during a sleepover or on the couch passed out after a movie marathon. Now I had my own space that I would be occupying indefinitely. The thought was frightening.

Pammy made a gurgling noise from the crib, and I sighed. I missed Tara, who had saved me from many of the disgusting burdens of motherhood, from throw up to nasty diapers. There wasn't enough room in Jordan's house to accompany a twenty-four hour caretaker, and I wasn't even sure if that was in my best financial interests then. This notion reminded me that I would have to get a new checkbook. Daisy Fay would be written on the line from now on- after the divorce was finalized.

I opened my laptop with the full intention of wasting a few hours on social media and distracting myself with makeup tutorials on YouTube. Facebook was a necessity in the digital age, but I neglected to check it as often as I should. Mindlessly scrolling through my newsfeed, I searched for something worthwhile, clicking on the occasional shared article. I was ten minutes in when I noticed a photo of Nick.

He was red-faced and glancing at the camera with annoyance. Was he drunk? I entertained the thought briefly; I could barely fathom the thought of my calm and mild-natured cousin getting wasted at some party. The photos were rather blurry, as if taken with a moving phone. Nick probably hadn't logged on recently enough to untag himself from the photos- they were uploaded just two nights ago. I clicked through the album, uploaded by a Mrs. Patricia McKee with whom I had seventeen mutual friends. Throughout the scenes, Nick seemed rather unhappy and bothered.

I stopped at one of the photos. Mrs. Patricia McKee smiled drunkenly in a selfie, a feminine man tagged as her husband and a glass of wine dangling from her hand. Their embarrassing expressions weren't what caught my interest. It was behind them. This photo had been taken with more clarity than the others. Behind Mrs. McKee stood a man whose profile clearly resembled Tom's. He was turned towards the side, angled towards a woman turned away from the camera, her auburn curls in a bun and a puppy in one arm. A sudden feeling of nausea overcame me, and I quickly exited the album.

I tried to direct my attention to the newest video from my favorite YouTube artist, but couldn't. Instead, I found myself reopening the photo and stared at the man in the background. There was little doubt about it: that was Tom- my Tom. My breathing quickened. It was too late to be getting so distressed over a Facebook photo. Despite this, I rapidly clicked through the album in the hopes of finding something useful, but both Tom and the auburn-haired woman seemed to stick to the blurred backgrounds, sneaky figures in the darkness.

Then, I paused. I dragged my cursor to the search bar on the top and began to type. Hundreds of searches came up for a Myrtle Wilson in the city, but only one had enough mutual friends to be more than a speck on the radar. Composing myself, I clicked on her name. Her wall was cluttered with numerous posts, but I ignored them, instead staring at the enlarged profile picture of the auburn-haired woman from that night. Below it, in small text, it read: Married to George Wilson. The man's name was in black- perhaps he didn't have a Facebook to check on his cheating wife. She was less careful with her photos on her own page.

There was only one photo that mattered, uploaded in the past week. Beaming behind those reddish brown locks, she had one arm around Tom's neck, drawing him closer to her bosom from his position on an unfamiliar couch. The gesture indicative of intimacy didn't hurt as much as the expression on Tom's face: one of pure happiness. Suddenly, I realized that I hadn't remembered him looking at me like that in a year, not since I held Pammy in my arms in the delivery room.

In my frustration, I began to cry. Pammy picked up on my distress and began crying too. Not in the mood to be the comforting mother, I ignored her and instead thought about Tom. I thought about how much I loved him even if he had betrayed me. I thought about how useless my title as his wife was if he enjoyed another woman's presence more than mine. I lay in my bed silently, unmoving, even after Pammy had quieted. Sleep failed to come to me.

I stared into space until Jordan came back. She stepped in briefly, left, and then returned with a cup of hot tea that I rejected. Pammy began to make some noises again, and I heard Jordan beginning to change her diaper. This act of motherhood from someone as volatile and hard as her startled me. For some reason, it made me cry again. As soon as Pammy was in a new diaper, Jordan sat down at my side.

"I hope she'll be a fool - that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool." I whispered. At least fools didn't get their hearts broken.


	3. Chapter 3

The Great Gatsby, characters, and original concept belong to F. Scott Fitzgerald.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

The following week, Nick invited us out to a party at his neighbor's venue in the city. While I would normally be averse to spending time in the company of gaudy West Eggers- excluding my cousin, of course-, words of a famous Gatsby reached my social circle and garnered sufficient curiosity to give the party a chance. At first I had been distrustful of Nick, until I remembered how unhappy he had looked in the photos, and comforted myself with the thought that maybe he had wanted to tell me but was too conflicted. I pinned the reason to be his quiet, wallflower nature and instead focused on enjoying my first night out as an uncommitted woman.

I pulled out an old cocktail dress that Jordan had convinced me not to put into storage. Standing in front of the mirror years older than when I had last worn it, it came as little surprise when Jordan walked in and bluntly remarked, "Try another one."

She tossed me one of own: a navy shift with a thick black stripe on each side. I regarded it doubtfully, but when I slipped it on, it fit quite well. Without waiting for a thanks, Jordan disappeared into the bathroom to wash her face. The best part about Jordan was that most of the time, things could go unspoken and still be understood. Turning back towards the mess of unpacked shoes, I gingerly slipped on some open-toed pink heels. I had my share of parties with Tom, but they tended to be with our work colleagues. Everyone had to act professionally. Now, I was single and about to attend the crazy, publicly intoxicated social scene of Manhattan once again.

Nick picked us up and was our ride to the train station. During the train ride, my anxiety worsened. We found ourselves in front of the Blue Jay Bar, one of the many in the boroughs, and with our names skipped the line of obnoxious college kids. As Nick spoke to the bouncer, I noticed the occasional individual walking out from the alley in between the bar and the neighboring building. With the loud music and spinning neon lights, I couldn't blame them for wanting a breath of fresh air, and I hadn't even stepped foot into the establishment yet. It all seemed so overwhelming.

The interior was high-class, but like most of West Egg, gaudy and overbearing. Mahogany was the chosen wood, graced by too many gilded trimmings and intricate details. The stools against the bar all had black leather seats, different from the various circles of lounge-style armchairs. There were numerous statues, although placed too far out of reach for any drunken miscreants to commit any acts of vandalism. I eyed the many pieces of modern art that attempted to look hip but instead made the walls cramped and noisy. Countless lights lit up the ceiling and lounge areas. It was clearly an expensive venue, but this Gatsby was perhaps a bit too showy with his money.

Regardless of my opinion, the bar-goers loved it. They clustered in small groups, mingling only in a mob of sweaty bodies on the dance floor. Surrounded by the thrum of music and alcohol, I felt out of place, but entranced by the liveliness of it all. Jordan led us to the bar; Nick, new to the wilder city scene, followed her closely. While I nursed my martini and Nick left briefly, Jordan pulled me aside.

"Look, I'm telling you now because if I told you before you might not have wanted to come. Anyway, this Gatsby- he's James. Jimmy Gatz, from back home. Do you remember him?" Jordan's words cut me sharply, weakened only by what alcohol was running through my system.

I swallowed, averting my gaze, and continued drinking. "Of course I remember him." Of course James would name his own bar franchise after himself. "What else?"

"He wants to meet you. That's why Nick and I invited you along. I know that you're hurting right now but I think it'd be good for you to hang out with more people. You know, be out and about." Grabbing my hand, she told me, "What do you say?"

I stared past her, at the DJ working the music. Then, I downed my martini and gently set the glass down. "Okay," I said.

* * *

><p>Jordan, who clearly had been to the bar before, led us down a small hallway that brought us past the kitchen and a few offices. There were a number of what I assumed to be bouncers and guards- intimidating people of that nature- that watched us critically as we passed. We climbed green carpeted stairs with an overly elegant banister. It was as if Jimmy- Jay- wanted to scream out his newfound wealth to the entire city. Although, I admitted, he probably flaunted it in each of the five boroughs if all of his venues were as extravagant.<p>

Clearly he had been anticipating our arrival, because Jordan had just stepped in front of the door when it flung open. Jay Gatsby was remarkably different from the small-town country boy named James Gatz. Donning what I guessed to be a Canali suit, Gatsby's clean-cut appearance spoke of a man proud of how far he had come. He was certainly classier than his bars. When I met his gaze, I was stunned by how intensely he stared at me.

"Daisy," He said softly, my name spoken so emotionally I turned to stare at him as we walked in. He turned to my friends, "Hey Nick, Jordan. Why don't we all take a seat?"

I declined his offer for more drinks, wanting my head to be as clear as possible. "Nice to see you, Jimmy," Playing with the hem of my dress, I tried to maintain eye contact- tried to stay strong even though I wanted to turn away in shame. Here was a man who had done something with his life, and I had thrown him away for the reckless joys of college and the other prime husband-material men who actually would get their degrees.

Seventeen years young and ready for the world, I fell in love with James Gatz. Fresh out of high school, all my experiences with men had resulted in fumbling around and escalating immaturity ending with a dramatic, tear-inducing breakup. James Gatz was firmer, a steady presence that was ready to catch me at every fall. He played his role in the chase well. There would be no real reason for him to show up at my door with flowers, but he did, only because he loved me. While I valued him, the thought of losing him was easier to stomach than the thought of being in a long-distance relationship during college. The thrill of living away from home while simultaneously educating myself in my chosen field was a decision that he had made and abandoned long ago, but I would not.

He had been so hurt when I left. It was shameful to be sitting there. For so many years I had felt above him in wealth and in priorities- after all, he was the one who dropped out of college- and yet, he had won the game. He was wealthier, more influential. He wasn't going through a divorce. Jay seemed a much more fitting name than Jimmy now. In its brevity, it spoke of power and maturity.

Our conversation was awkward. Only Jordan and Nick's small-talk kept it from lapsing into an uncomfortable silence. I sensed Jay's increasing agitation; perhaps he had expected this reunion to go much more smoothly. After all, he'd always been an optimist. I avoided his eyes by analyzing every painting behind him. Each one was as loud and attention-grabbing as the ones out front.

"Like the paintings?" Jay prodded eagerly, latching onto whatever he could to contribute to the conversation. "I bought them while I was in London. Well, I met the man who made them in London, but I ordered them later, when I acquired this office that just demanded the presence of such pieces."

"Yes," I replied, and again, the exchange slowed to a halt.

Suddenly Jordan stood up, setting her glass down as she gathered her belongings. "Nick and I are going to grab some more drinks and take a breather outside." In less than a minute, she was gone, my cousin trailing behind her. I momentarily cursed her for leaving me, but calmed myself: Jordan knew what she was doing.

I was alone with Jay. This fact seemed to register in his mind as well, as his entire posture seemed to slacken and relax. We both were going to need drinks if this façade of chumminess went on. As if he read my mind, Jay stood up and walked over to a polished cabinet beneath one of the paintings. He bent over to open it and came up holding a clearly expensive bottle of champagne vintage. I smiled weakly, and he grinned back at me before producing two glasses that he set on artfully carved wooden coasters. I briefly entertained myself with the thought of Jordan raging over being left out of such fancy alcohol.

He stood close to me, pouring the wine slowly as to not spill a drop. "You don't have to feel bad," he murmured softly, so gently that I almost couldn't hear him.

I felt my face beginning to flush and resolved the issue by turning away, fixating my eyes on another ugly painting. "It was a long time ago." Like that was any consolation for breaking a guy's heart.

"Indeed it was. This is a new start here, Daisy. The city's provided many opportunities for me, despite the recession. It's a whole lot better than North Dakota." He set aside the bottle and began to drink, peering over the glass rim at me with a smile. "Wouldn't you agree?"

I could talk about the city. "Yeah. I landed a pretty good job out of college- estimating the chances of success for upcoming businesses. Statistics, you know. Did you end up going back to school?"

"No, college wasn't for me." The shortness of his words made him all the more convincing. "I chanced the market. The bar was a hit; it's clearly a high-end bar, but the menu options allow anyone to enjoy their time here. I made enough after a year to open up another one in Queens. Now I've got at least two in each borough."

"It's a nice place."

Jay moved his seat around the desk so he was closer to me. "I try my best. How's life been treating you otherwise?"

Even though I was in the middle of a divorce, it felt wrong to be idly chatting with a man that stirred up old feelings. His closeness wasn't helping my increased heart rate. However, it wasn't as if the sanctity of marriage existed anymore, so perhaps I was crazy. Tom clearly didn't mind seeing other women during our marriage, so I shouldn't have been worried about seeing other men during our divorce. It was the part of my conscience that still loved my husband that was had a problem with Jay.

Reaching for the bottle, I poured myself another glass of champagne. "I'm in the middle of a divorce now. Been married for almost six years. I also have a daughter, Pammy. She's turning two next May."

"Oh?" Jay's demeanor changed; he seemed smaller, as if the thought of me having a child with another man was one of the worst things to hear. "Well. I'm sorry to hear that." He recovered and was back to his smiling self. There was a slight damper to his confidence though, evident in his slower movements and third glass of wine.

"It's okay," I mumbled, regretting for having said anything. No one liked a girl who spoke too quickly about her exes. We moved past that topic and turned to discussing where old faces had ended up.

Slowly, though, with Nick and Jordan gone, Jay seemed to open up more. I was a familiar face, and there was a certain excitement in our meeting alone. It was almost refreshing. Every word he spoke had a sense of purpose; it sought to engage me and capture my attention, and by my third glass of wine, it was especially effective. The initial awkwardness had faded away to something else.

"I'll admit, Nick and I weren't the kind of neighbors to go knocking on one another's doors introducing one another. I left him a letter instead," He professed, and then added, "He's a nice guy though. Stopped by on numerous occasions. I even got him to try out my Xbox."

The thought of my stoic cousin getting agitated over a videogame with Jay was near impossible to conjure up in my mind. I was, however, able to imagine a fully suited Gatsby sitting in an entertainment room decked out in ugly paintings. "Really? That's unexpected. How long have you lived in West Egg?"

Jay bought his mansion just a few years ago, having found quick success with his franchise. It was infuriating: I had struggled through college trying to balance my social and academic circles. Somehow, Jay had skipped out on those four years and, even though he hadn't made much money at first, landed more money and fame. He had exploited the Manhattan city scene and beat the off-chances of making it without a college degree. People like that were special; they were the kinds to run gigantic companies and revolutionize technology- the Steve Jobs type.

We were laughing over a shared memory from years long gone when Jay reached forward and grabbed my hands in his- hands that, despite being clean, bore callouses from a rougher era. "Daisy, my feelings for you haven't changed over the years. I have always wanted to tell you that I was worth another chance, but I never felt the moment was right. I had to become a man worthy of you." He was leaning in closely, so that I could not avoid his searching gaze.

As cliché as his words were, they somehow elicited a certain thrill. I didn't pull my hands away, and tried to focus on the distant sound of the DJ. Like the seventeen year old girl who used to say goodbye to her boyfriend by kissing beneath the streetlamp, I was enamored. It felt wrong, to have been loyal to Tom just two weeks ago, but at the same time, I felt like I deserved it. I deserved to love someone just as much as I deserved to be loved.

I looked at Jay, at the man who stared at me with the same intensity as all those years ago. I could love him again.

"You are," I said.

Jay Gatsby closed the distance between us.


	4. Chapter 4

The Great Gatsby, characters, and original concept belong to F. Scott Fitzgerald.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 4<span>**

When my six o'clock alarm yanked me from my sleep, I immediately sat up, disoriented and blindly swiping at my phone's screen. I didn't recognize the fish tanks that adorned the walls or the vast collection of books that spread from one wall to the other. The sound of another breath surprised me. I jerked, kicking some of the warm blankets off as I did so, and saw Jay. Memories from the previous night flooded back, as did the splitting headache. I couldn't help but smile at his sleeping form.

The sheets were so soft, and Jay looked so peaceful, I almost felt guilty leaving. However, I had to attend to Pammy, and it was unfair for Jordan to be on motherly duties for so long. As I slipped my pumps on, I gazed around the room. Jay's bedroom was in much better taste than his bar. The walls were decorated with a number of photos, and I noticed a considerable number of them were taken recently.

I slipped out the door and into the wide hallway without stirring him. When I turned around, it was as if I was seeing his house for the first time. In my drunken state, I hadn't fully absorbed the magnificence of the Gatsby home. The polished wooden floor was without scuffs and its surface was smooth, unscratched. Every few rooms, an intricately carved table sat beneath an even more complicatedly framed mirror. Gaudy and rich, I mused, but the latter trait clearly outweighed the former.

On each table sat a bouquet of flowers in a stained glass vase. I passed one and paused- daisies. I smiled and plucked one from the arrangement. Jay had always known how to charm me.

* * *

><p>Left with no other option, I was forced to take a bus. After ten minutes of waiting at the stop, I fought for a seat to avoid standing shoulder to shoulder in the cramped aisle. While the bus bumped and jostled me about, I briefly wondered if I could have just asked one of Jay's chauffeurs for a ride. Too late now, I thought. I quickly texted Jay an explanation for my absence and then notified Jordan that I was en-route. When I exited the conversation, I noticed seven missed calls from Tom that occurred while I had been at the bar. Seeing his name unsettled me, but I knew that I'd have to talk to him at some point, so I deleted the alerts and watched the trees whiz by.<p>

When I arrived at Jordan's house, I fumbled about for my keys as to not make too much of a fuss getting in. I was still dizzy from the events of the night, and one of Jordan's house staff opened the door as I was about to bring the key out. I laughed nervously at her critical look and commenced the walk of shame up the stairs.

It was silent on the second floor, but I knew that in fifteen or twenty minutes, Pammy would awaken and cry. My goal was to be there at her crib to shush her before she awakened Jordan. I pushed the door to my room open gently and eased myself onto the bed. My other dresses and shoes were still scattered about on the floor like some sparkly, brightly-colored explosion. With a heavy sigh, I began to clean them up, cursing the cleaning staff for being so afraid of a baby that they wouldn't enter a room with one.

I was shoving the last pair of shoes onto the rack when Pammy began to wail. Without skipping a beat, I rushed to her side and immediately began to give her the attention she demanded. Quickly, I offered the warmed bottle of milk. Her sniveling immediately changed to become the greedy suckling of a hungry baby. How did other people, without twenty four hour caretakers, handle a screaming baby all hours of the day? It was unthinkable.

After she was fed, Pammy resumed her sleep. I heaved a breath of relief and quickly stripped of last night's clothing. I craved a hot shower. As I scrubbed my skin, I was engaged in a war with my consciousness. I should have waited longer before returning to the dating scene, I thought, but Jay was worth it. Whatever relationship we had formed last night had been stronger and more passionate than what Tom and I shared over the past two years. I remembered Jay's embrace, comforted by the intensity of my feelings even after the alcohol had worn off.

I stepped out of the shower with more confidence than when I stepped in. I was a modern woman; I would not be like my mother, trapped by the expectations of society in a loveless marriage.

* * *

><p>It was around nine when Jay called me, sounding frantic. I had passed out with my laptop open after my shower, and I was admittedly a little less than happy to be woken up again.<p>

"Hello?" I spoke into the phone, sounding more agitated than I intended. "Hey. Jay. Yeah, sorry about that. I had to get home. Pammy needed to be fed and I didn't want her to wake up Jordan."

There was a brief silence. "You could have stayed for breakfast."

"I left at six thirty, and you were still asleep. I didn't want to wake you." I was attuned to Jay's irritation, but it seemed like an overreaction. While I wasn't the most present mother, I did make an effort to not let my child cry for hours to bed fed.

I heard some noise on the other end, and Jay's voice rose. "Did you think about how I would feel when I woke up and you were gone? Yeah, I read your text, but still. Couldn't you have gotten Jordan to take care of her for the morning?"

"No, I didn't think it was necessary," I snapped, angry that he wanted me to drag Jordan into such inconveniences after she was willing to set us up together at his request. I wasn't the seventeen year old without responsibilities anymore. "It's not the end of the world. We can have breakfast another time."

This calmed him. "All right. That's okay. Sorry." He was relaxing, realizing that he hadn't lost me again. "Hey, why don't we have lunch next Tuesday? You can come over."

"Yeah, that sounds nice." The giddiness swiftly replaced the annoyance that I had felt. "Thanks again for the fun night, Jay. I'll see you then."

"Bye, Daisy. I love you."

I hung up.

* * *

><p>A few hours later, I found myself in Jordan's room, eagerly divulging to her all the juicy details of a night well spent. As soon as I was done, she gladly fed me the happenings of her movie night with Nick. There was a unique excitement to gossiping about our own lives. I was thanking her profusely for being Pammy's new mother when the doorbell rang.<p>

The door had already been answered by the time we came downstairs, and our guest was standing in the main foyer, examining some photos on the wall. From my position on the stairs, he had his back to us. I noticed the flowers in his hand when he turned. I stopped, recognizing the navy polo shirt and profile.

"Tom?" I said. Jordan greeted him coolly, before excusing herself and returning to her room.

The man who was my husband just two weeks ago smiled gently at me, the same smile that first charmed me. My stomach clenched, and I felt even more lightheaded when he extended the flowers towards me. In the other hand, he held a small box.

"Daisy, I know that you wanted space and I respect that. I gave you time to cool off, but now I think I deserve a chance for you to hear me out one last time, at least." He watched my face for any indication to stop, but finding none, he continued. "I know that our relationship now isn't what you want. Why don't we try this again? Go on one more date, more if it goes well. The papers aren't finalized; you're still my wife, and I'm still your husband. Our marriage hasn't been nullified yet. We can get dinner and laugh about inside jokes like we always have."

I waited for anything about Myrtle, but like before, he seemed intent on making zero promises regarding her. Insulted, I began to turn away, when he opened the box. Inside, nestled in red velvet, was a silver chained necklace with three diamond droplets, the center being the largest. I couldn't help but turn back towards him and eye him warily.

His voice became more desperate. "We won't agree on everything, but maybe we can give it a shot one more time?"

The child sleeping upstairs was a physical token of our love. I thought about how, regardless of our shattered marriage, its foundations were still very real. "Okay," I replied, slowly taking the flowers and the box. "When?"

"Monday night," Tom answered decisively, the power returning to his stature. He knew he had won me over for the moment. It was that kind of confidence that made me love him. "Where we first met."

Jay's face floated to the front of my mind, but I pushed him away. I could love both of them, couldn't I? I just needed time to think. There was no need to tell Tom about him. It wasn't as if he discussed Myrtle with me.

"Sounds like a plan," I answered, beginning to turn back towards the stairs. Tom reached into the pocket of his pants and withdrew another box.

I recognized the silver trimming immediately, but pretended not to. Tom placed it in my hand, on top of the first, and drew me close. I could smell him- the same smell that I went to sleep breathing in every night for six years. My chest began to hurt as I clenched the boxes. Tom brought his lips to my cheeks softly and then pulled away, walking out without another word.

Later that night, I sat cross-legged on my bed, a rose gold watch on my wrist and a daisy in my hand.


	5. Chapter 5

The Great Gatsby, characters, and original concept belong to F. Scott Fitzgerald.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 5<span>**

My nights bounced in between Jay and Tom, intercepted by the necessary breaks with Jordan. It was much easier to not inform one of the other, but as with all relationships, things sometimes got messy. Jay was eager to hear about the divorce finalizing, as if he was ready to pop out a ring as soon as legally possible. On the other hand, Tom didn't know of Jay, and for all he knew, I was still his faithful wife.

Nick spoke nothing of Tom and Myrtle to me, and I assumed that he was the same regarding me and Jay to Tom. Wallflowers were always excellent secret-keepers. While we weren't particularly close, I appreciated Nick more than ever. He was an excellent listener, and even let me gloat about my excellent dates with Jay. None of what he heard from me reached Tom.

Three months after I first demanded a divorce, I slipped. Every now and then, Jordan and I went out to the Blue Jay Bar for a girl's night. Jay often was absorbed in his own business affairs, but that night, he happened to glimpse me dancing with Jordan. This wouldn't have been an issue if I hadn't been wearing the diamond necklace Tom had given me, a piece of jewelry I had carelessly thrown on without noting where exactly we were hanging out that night. After some interrogation, I finally told him where it was from, but it was like he knew all along.

He was hurt, that much I could tell, but I wasn't lying. I did care for him, and I also cared for Tom too. After reassuring him that the divorce wasn't off and that I was still talking with Tom for the sake of our daughter, he retreated into his office, sullen and in a foul mood. Jordan took none of this too well, regarding Jay with a disdainful expression from afar as he argued with me in the hallway outside his office. We left the bar before nine.

A few days later, Tom received a letter from a Mr. Jay Gatsby inviting him and his wife to attend a small formal gathering of the city's elites at the Blue Jay Bar. When Tom called, I knew that he wouldn't take no for an answer. It was not uncommon, and it could easily be explained by the fact that he hoped to showcase the bar for big company gatherings. Tom, being an obviously large part of the Buchanan corporation, received a lot of invitations to meetings advertising renovated venues or newly opened restaurants that he would drag me to. I wanted to decline, but this time, however, there was a kind of urgency in Tom's voice.

"I've done my research on this Gatsby," he told me. "And what I've found is nothing good. He lives in West Egg, after all. He might own several bars across New York, but where he lives says a lot about him."

I frowned. "Nick lives in West Egg. That doesn't mean anything."

"Sure it does! Anyway, Nick's different. He lives in a modest house, and this guy Gatsby- he's Nick's neighbor. I looked it up on the Yellow Pages." Tom began to laugh. "I remember his house now. It was the giant ugly one. Now, let's see what kind of formal gatherings a bar manager can host."

* * *

><p>Jordan and Nick had not been invited, but I knew it was not meant in offense. Jay wanted to see Tom for himself. Standing in front of the mirror, I saw a woman who was living the best of both worlds but feared their collision. Jordan hooked the clasp of a pearl necklace for me. It was a safe choice- neither Tom nor Jay could criticize me for a piece of jewelry gifted to me by my best girlfriend.<p>

I ran my hands over my hips, admiring how the silver fabric of the dress clung to my body, and breathed in deeply. "Well, here we go," I said to Jordan.

She smirked at my nervousness. "Maybe you'll distract them with your looks and they'll forget to bicker."

We laughed and for a moment I felt calm, but when one of the house staff announced Tom's arrival, the anxiety returned. As handsome as he looked in his designer suit and new haircut, I couldn't help but wonder how Jay would appear. We took a cab into the city to avoid the gunk of the subways ruining my dress, and I made an honest effort to get Tom in a good mood before he faced Jay.

There was peace for less than an hour. Forty-five minutes in, Jay found us and introduced himself as an old friend of mine. The familiarity in which he spoke to me set Tom on edge, and I tensed, feeling Tom pull me close as if to establish his dominance. I was not committed to him anymore though, and that behavior wasn't acceptable anymore.

I wriggled away from him, glaring. "Lovely venue you have here tonight, Jay," I said, turning away from Tom.

"Yes, it's quite different than the usual weekend nights, as I'm sure you can tell." Gesturing to the bartender, Jay offered me a martini, ignoring Tom. The mounting tension was rolling off my husband in waves. I declined his offer with a wave of my hand.

Tom didn't take his eyes off Jay. "Do you come here often, Daisy?"

"Sometimes. It's a popular place to go. Jordan and I spend our girls' nights here." I tried to shift the conversation towards a lighter, safer topic than what I did in my leisure time. "Isn't the setting lovely, Tom?"

"It's absolutely ostentatious," He replied with a laugh. "I mean really, Daisy. Why here? The paintings are absolutely horrendous. I'd imagine the last bar we went to a year ago- Norah's Pub- was better. Homelier, but at least the décor wasn't garish." Like a rooster, Tom was swelling. With every put-down he seemed to grow in size.

That was when Gatsby snapped. "Maybe it's because she prefers my company here over yours. After all, isn't that why you're no longer living together?" His words cut into Tom's pride.

"Hey," I said, raising my voice slightly in warning.

"I don't know why she would, considering where you get your money." Tom's voice was strangely calm, despite his tense body language. Suddenly, my stomach dropped.

I stepped in between them. "That's enough," although I was nowhere close to either of their heights, I managed to make myself look at least mildly authoritative. "We came here to enjoy the night, not fight among each other." After a few seconds of a stare down, I realized that this confrontation would have to play itself out, no matter what I said. "Why don't we at least take this to your office, Jay?"

Finally, something they could agree on. The three of us headed towards the small hallway, under the scrutiny of the other attendants. As we passed them, I recognized the doctors, the successful entrepreneurs, and the lawyers. For a brief second, I wondered if any of them knew Dr. Wheatley. This thought was interrupted by the same burly guards I saw the first time I was reunited with Jay. Tom momentarily seemed put off by the presence of the men and remembered who his host was, but recovered quickly.

"Do you even know what he does, Daisy?" Tom asked me, a strange glint in his eyes that told me that no matter what I said, he was going to earn some kind of victory.

I glared at him. "He runs bars, you know, like the one you're standing in?"

"Let's be realistic. What makes this bar so special? It's got expensive décor, sure, but it's not even done tastefully. There's a clash between formality and the wild party scene. No, it's not the thematic elements that draw them here." Tom narrowed his eyes at Jay. "This is a cover for his illegal trade. All those rooms? People are dealing things away from the prying eye of the law because this guy gets a cut of the profits."

I recoiled, tasting something bitter in my mouth. All the people leaving through the alley entrance, the numerous small offices on the long hallway… I stared at Jay, unable to think of a fitting response. Beside me, Tom snorted, as if my silence had validated his victory.

Jay took a step forward. "She never loved you! She loved me first, and your marriage was purely financial."

That was it. The real issue, me, had been thrown out into the open, and I saw Tom ready to lay his claim. He stepped towards Jay, their chests nearly touching, with a challenge in his eyes. The sight of them staring each other down unnerved me for reasons other than the likely violence.

Once again, I joined them in their stare down. "If we're going to be discussing me," I snarled, drawing both of their eyes away from one another. "Then wouldn't it be smart to hear my side?" My heart was racing and I was glad that I had a clear mind.

"Tell him, Daisy," Jay urged, a wild look in his eyes. He turned back to Tom with a feverish look, ready to fight. I cringed, knowing that Tom would wipe the floor with him.

Seeing no other option, I took a deep breath and stared intensely at both of them, holding their gazes. "I love both of you," I shouted, holding back tears. "And I don't want either of you fighting over me. I'm not some prize that sits idly by. I have a say in who I spend my nights with!"

Jay looked hurt, as if I had shattered some dream of his. Tom just looked angry, but I recognized the look in his eyes. It was one that saw a challenge and accepted it. Before they could say anything else or begin to punch each other, I stepped away.

"Deal with this how you will," I told them firmly, "But for once consider how that will make me feel."

Without waiting for a response, I walked out of the office and the Blue Jay Bar. Not a single drop of alcohol had even touched my lips.


	6. Chapter 6

The Great Gatsby, characters, and original concept belong to F. Scott Fitzgerald.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 6<span>**

Jordan and I celebrated the finalization of the divorce by going out to our favorite coffee shop. We pretended that it was a three course meal, picking the menu items with such thoughtfulness and even bringing our own wine glasses for prepackaged beverages. As always, our order came out to be one egg bagel with butter and a banana walnut muffin with two cups of pulp-free orange juice. These were the mornings that I lived for.

Halfway through our meal, my phone began to buzz with messages from Tom. I knew that they would say what he'd been repeating for the past few months: "A few stacks of paper won't keep me from winning you back." I appreciated the sentiment, and his efforts were admirable. Without taking my eyes off my bagel, I reached into my purse and silenced my phone. Jay had been texting me all morning as well; I didn't need both of them to be bothering me. I loved them both, but a girl needed her own space.

"Now we can say that we're single without explaining that you're in the process of divorcing." Jordan bit into the piece of pastry she had cut. "I'm glad I never got deep enough into a relationship for the government to get involved."

I grinned, shrugging. "A white dress and an expensive wedding can fill your head with all sorts of ideas."

"I don't know. Even before we broke up, I can't imagine ever marrying Nick."

Upon hearing his name, I started; it had been a while since I heard from my cousin. Apparently he hadn't been very supportive of me dating two men for long periods of time, especially when his own girlfriend was encouraging it. I hadn't heard from him in a while, not since he moved back west. In the city that never slept, Nick just couldn't keep up. He just didn't appreciate it. I hadn't even known that he felt so strongly about it all until he told me the night before he left.

"I don't know what I would have done if he somehow convinced you to move to the west with him," I remarked, unable to even fathom Jordan returning to some small town after having tasted the rush of Manhattan. "Anyway, marriage doesn't seem to be the best route these days. Civil unions are the way to go. I for one won't be marrying again anytime soon, not even Gatsby. Nick's a good guy; he was just too traditional for you. Incompatible."

To my surprise, she sighed. "Yeah. It was never really serious, but he was cool. I knew he didn't play mind games. His quietness just got to be too disconcerting."

"Men," I said, and the smile returned to her face.

"Yeah," she grinned. "Men."


End file.
